Smoke and Mirrors
by Ares Is Awesome
Summary: Having destroyed the forcefield to escape the Quarter Quell, Katniss finds herself in the midst of the rebellion that is sweeping Panem. With allies new and old, can she help to overthrow the oppressive Capitol? Victory means freedom. Failure is death.
1. Chapter 1

**Part I: The Risks**

The sun is on its way up when we arrive at our destination. The eastern sky is a pale, serene gray, and the horizon glows a faint yellow. Being greeted off of the hovercraft by the morning mist soothes me, although the temporary peace is too good to be true. Ever since first defying the bloodthirsty Capitol in the seventy-fourth Hunger Games, I have not known the meaning of the word, not even when I sleep. And now, being the face of the rebellion, at the headquarters of the movement, in the supposedly-obliterated District 13? Needless to say that at this point, peace is laughable.

Even the calmness of the morning seems to wear off as the four of us trudge across the grassy field—a designated landing zone—toward the district. No one speaks, but it's better that way. Besides the fact that I don't have anything to say, there's no one I would talk to if I did. I presently glare at Haymitch's back. I don't think I can ever forgive him for how he's used me.

He betrayed my trust as a mentor and as a friend. Just thinking about how he's lied to me, misled me, manipulated me for his own ends infuriates me. I'm frustrated that this man who has had my life in his hands, not just twice for the Games, but constantly for the past year just let me go along blissfully unaware of what was actually happening—what was set to happen beneath the surface. I involuntary make a fist, though I'm not going to do anything with it.

"You okay, Catnip?" From my left, my best friend Gale senses me tensing up. He's got the instinct of a hunter. Almost no subtle movements ever make it by him.

"Fine." I reply almost coldly, trying to deflect conversation. Even though we've known each other for so long, there's really nothing that could be said between us right now. We haven't really spoken since he told me about District 12. Or, rather, about the destruction of District 12 at the hands of the Capitol's planes. I suppose I haven't said much to anyone since then.

But who could expect me to? I don't want to think about it, don't want to deal with it. I'm not letting myself think of anyone as dead until I see for myself who is in District 13. And, at the very least, I can console myself with the fact that my mother and Prim are still alive, thanks to Gale. I can't even allow myself to consider what it would be like if I had lost them, after all I've done to try to keep them safe—and all I've done to put them in greater danger.

The fourth person with us, Finnick Odair, suddenly stumbles, having accidentally put his foot in a pothole. I freeze momentarily, certain that we're under attack and he's just been hit, but he rights himself without comment. I continue to walk, but it's still hard for me to convince myself that there is no imminent danger. The Games have taken any sense of security I may have once had and replaced it with adrenaline and paranoia.

Gale shoots me querying look, his gray eyes asking, _"Are you sure?"_ I give him an almost imperceptible nod._ No, Gale,_ I think. _I'm not sure._ I'm not sure I'll ever be okay. Not even when all of this is over.

We reach the forty-foot wall that surrounds the city. I'm almost surprised the capitol never employed something like this to contain the districts—it seems more practical than the chain link fences, even if those were electrified. Two guards with guns are posted outside the gates, one male and one female, both seemingly in their mid-twenties. The male, slightly shorter than his counterpart, steps forward and addresses Haymitch.

"Forcefield?" he asks, although it seems like he already knows the answer. He has a very quiet voice, and even from four feet away I can hardly hear him. Haymitch just nods. The watchman pulls out a radio and murmurs into it in an even softer voice. A few words stick out, but they don't make any sense.

He gives us a smile in confirmation, as the gates to the district slowly are pulled open, accompanied by the mechanical clicking of gears. The female sentry insists on escorting us inside, where she motions for a sallow-faced man to take her replace. He soundlessly obeys, and the gates slam shut as he takes her place.

As I get a glimpse of District 13, it becomes clear that the people have put forth much time and effort to rebuild. If I didn't already know that this was the same location as seen on television, I wouldn't have recognized it. The dense buildings and gravel streets show no signs of ever being the ruins that the Capitol footage shows. The roads are mostly empty, aside from the pairs of sentries, who patrol up and down the narrow avenues intently.

The orderly feel of the guarded streets is suddenly disrupted as a stout, balding man with a thick black beard comes barreling around a corner. He appears as though he used to be athletic, though time robbed his body of this as it took his youth. Seeing the small cluster of us gathered at the gate, he relaxes and slows to a walk. Winded, he approaches Haymitch.

"Good to—see you in—person again—Haymitch," he puffs, tugging at his beard impatiently. It's obvious that there's some pressing matter on his mind, but he doesn't say anything on the subject. "Meant to greet—you in person."

Haymitch nods, dismissing this, one eyebrow raised, as though amused—and it is definitely amusing to look at this man doubled over, hands on his knees trying to catch his breath, as though he just ran a mile.

"Montello Sculpin," he says. "How are things running?"

"They're running. Although..." Montello Sculpin trails off with a quick glance at me, as if he's trying not to be suspicious. It seems he wants to discuss something important with Haymitch in private. I'm irritated that secrets are being kept from me even still, but I'm not going to interrupt.

"I will discuss this with you in the conference room," he concludes in a low voice, before turning to me. "Miss Everdeen! What an honor it is to meet the Mockingjay at last!"

It's hard for me to not resent my fame. I've been preconditioned to despise my stardom, given that everything I've associated with it has been immense hatred towards and pressure from the Capitol. Pressure to behave, pressure to do as I'm told, pressure to stay in love with Peeta.

Peeta. Just the name makes it feel as if my stomach is being constricted by an imaginary hand. It's not a pleasant feeling to be reminded of the boy—the man—with whom I defied the Capitol on several occasions, for whom I feigned affection—though I don't quite know what I feel for him now. I don't want to think of Peeta as being in the hands of the most evil souls in all of Panem, and I especially don't want to consider what they might be doing to him. Assuming they've left him alive, that is.

We've both caused them enough trouble, and they're not the type to hesitate when slitting anyone's throat. Although I feel guilty about it, I almost hope that they have offed him. He's being held captive by the same twisted minds that throw twenty-four half-starved kids into an arena and laugh while they fight to the death. It would be beyond foolish to put anything past the murderers who torched an entire district. Serious torture is a distinct possibility.

It's the sudden growling of the female guard's stomach that gives Montello and Haymitch an excuse to break away from the group. As she blushes, it occurs to me that she can't be more than a year older than me, much younger than I originally guessed. She apologizes to Montello. "Sorry, sir. I was about to grab breakfast. I haven't eaten in twelve hours."

"Perfect," he tells her. "Go ahead, you are dismissed. Katniss, are you hungry?"

"No, sir." Something about Sculpin makes me feel as though I should be calling him sir, which is unusual for me. I can't think of many other people who command that type of respect after the spectacle he made running.

"Good, good. Why don't you and this young man—" he jerks his head towards Gale "—go ahead with Latchkey and get something to eat. Mr. Odair, you should go along, too." I don't know what annoys me more: the fact that Montello Sculpin is clearly trying to get rid of us and doing a poor job of hiding it, that he completely ignored my response to his question, or that information continues to be concealed from me. My one consolation is that Finnick is being sent away, too, and that I'm not being considered unable to handle certain things because of my age. It's a small victory, though.

"Latchkey, would you escort them to the mess hall?" The girl stares me down as Montello makes his request, almost as if curious, though I can't quite get the meaning of it. Unsettled, I turn to watch Sculpin and Haymitch hurriedly make their way down one street, resentment burning in my eyes.

"Well, that's Captain Sculpin for you," she shakes her head in amusement. "I'm Latchkey, by the way, if you didn't pick up on that before. Uh—Cerise, that is. Latchkey. Cerise Latchkey. I'll answer to either name, so I guess it doesn't really matter what you call me." Cerise glances around almost nervously. To me, she seems restless and fidgety, though I'm not sure whether this is a personality thing or influenced by some pending event.

"So... I'll take you guys to the mess hall now?" Our lack of protest is understood as mutual agreement. The three of us follow Cerise down a series of near-empty streets until a long gray building sits in front of us. In contrast to the rest of the district so far, the mess hall is abuzz with people from all walks of life, presumably here for their morning meal.

After waiting in a long but fast moving line and receiving several stares combined with murmurs, the four of us each receive a bowl of oatmeal and a small roll. My heart twinges as I remember Peeta describing to me how each bread reflects the 'flavor' of the district from which it came. These rolls in particular, though similar to those of District 12, seem to be made of a coarser grain, in a quality that suggests that whoever made them had more important things than to spend decades perfecting the roll.

There isn't too much open in terms of seating, but we manage to find three seats together. Finnick, gentleman that he is, abandons the table and lets Gale, Cerise, and I take the three we located. I set my bowl down next to Gale's; our new companion sits across from us.

As she takes a seat, it catches my attention that there's something familiar about Cerise's features, about the way she holds herself, although I can't quite put my finger on it. I'm positive I've never met her before, and she doesn't quite remind me of any one person I've ever know. Her long, chocolate-colored hair, presently kept in two disorderly braids—one on either side of her head—matches the irises of her eyes. It's her olive skin, though, that almost gives her the look of a typical resident of the Seam and makes me ask, "Where are you from originally?"

With a quizzical look, Cerise points to her chest with her thumb, to verify that I'm talking to her and not someone else. When I nod, she tells me. "I'm from here. A good number of us are, actually. I'd say there are about eleven thousand indigenous District Thirteeners, but then we've got a whole lot of fellow instigators and refugees. I couldn't take a guess at how many of them we've got."

I'm astounded that the population of this district—which doesn't seem to be physically bigger than District 12—is so large. I had always assumed that there would be maybe two thousand, tops. But eleven thousand? Perhaps the rebellion has somewhat better odds for victory of than I'd originally thought.

"How did you get to be so big?" Gale asks, pushing his empty bowl towards the center of the table slightly.

"The elders, they say it was tough at the beginning," explains Cerise, "but once we got going, we must have started breeding like rabbits. I mean, there's not a whole lot of reason to not have kids. Sure, it can be a bit tougher to feed so many mouths during the winter, but we don't have the Hunger Games. Not like you guys."

It's all very true. I've been opposed to having children virtually my whole life, just so I wouldn't have to face the chance that they'd be selected as a Tribute. So I wouldn't have to feel what I felt when Effie Trinket read Prim's name off that slip of paper, way before all this started. It's a lifetime ago, but it's as vivid as yesterday. Or, more accurately, several days ago—the final day of the Quarter Quell stands out much better than the half-drugged blur of the hovercraft ride.

"So do you have a lot of siblings, then?"

"'A lot' is open to interpretation, of course, but I do have several. I'm the second youngest of five. Well, four, if you don't count Vigil. I don't know if I should count Vigil. Do you count dead siblings to the total? That always confuses me." I feel bad for asking now, but Cerise doesn't seem to be too bothered by the mention of her dead sibling. I'm almost envious; I know that if I ever lost Prim, the topic would be nearly unbearable for life.

"I would," Gale says quietly. I can tell that the same thoughts are going through his head. He's the oldest of four and fiercely protective of his younger siblings.

"If you don't mind me asking," I know I'm way overstepping here, but I am curious as to what might make a person not consider one of their siblings when counting their family members, "how did Vigil die?"

Cerise doesn't seem to mind me asking at all. "He was stringing up powerlines several years ago, and didn't think testing them to make sure they supplied power was an issue. They did, alright, a few thousand watts right up his arm. He never was the brightest in the bunch of us, that's for sure. But that was a long time ago. What about you, do you have siblings?"

"I have three. At least, I think I still do..." There's something very wrong with the tone of Gale's voice. It takes me a few seconds to piece everything together, and when I do, I feel immediately guilty. I realize that I neglected to ask him if his family was okay, if they made it out of District 12. I was so consumed by everything that was going on with my life that I'd forgotten about Gale entirely. I didn't even think about Hazelle and the kids when he told me about the Capitol planes setting fire to the whole place. I must have assumed that since he'd gotten my family out, his was already safe. I feel so rotten and selfish, and know that I must be the worst friend in the world.

"Oh, no... Gale, I'm so sorry," I tell him. I am. I love Gale's little siblings like he loves Prim, and something happening to them... I realize that if something happened to one of them, it would be just one of the many small tragedies at the hands of the Capitol, just one of the many to be murdered in the firestorm.

He stares at his empty bowl and elaborates without prompting. "It's so clear in my mind," he begins in a hollow voice. "Haymitch called your house as soon as he'd been informed. I was visiting your mother and Prim when he did, and he said that he could get a hovercraft to pick us up somewhere outside the woods. I suggested by the lake, since that would be more easily spotted by air.

"His warning gave us about twenty minutes, but that was certainly not enough time. I ran back to my house, shouting for people to get out and spread the word. It was Sunday evening, and my whole family was home. I was going to get them out of the district, then worry about getting them to the lake. But by the time we got out of the house, it seemed like the whole district knew. It was chaos. The peacekeepers had to have been told in advance—there were none to be found, though I'm sure that would've added to the madness.

"We had to fight our way through the crowd to get to the fence. Rory got separated from us when the first plane arrived and the fire started." His voice is choked as he says this. "And what's the worst thing is that I didn't even realize he was gone until we made it to the fence, when I asked him for help tossing a cinder block at it, to knock it down. And when I noticed, there was no time to find him. I had to get my mother and Vick and Posy out...

"I didn't go back for my own brother," he says bitterly, leaning forward and resting his head on his hands. Gale is obviously so torn up about this, I can't do anything besides put my arm around him. I don't know how much comfort this could be to him, though, given that he's had to watch me and Peeta put on another show for the Capitol. Except this time, I don't know if I was acting.

"He might still be alive, you know." Cerise's voice is quite, almost to the point of being inaudible above the mess hall's din. "They've been sending people to recover those that are left outside District 12. There's a chance that your brother will turn up."

I immediately want to take part in one of those recovery missions, not just out of a sense of duty to Gale, to whom I owe so much, but to find the survivors, my friends from home. And I know the woods so well! I jump up from my seat. "Cerise?"

"Hmm?"

"If, hypothetically, one were to sign up for one of those recovery trips, where would they go?" I don't know why I'm talking like I'm not about to dash off, but it seems like _certain_ people—and I'm thinking of Haymitch here—would not be too happy if I were to run off and potentially get myself killed. And that's what ultimately makes up my mind: I want to defy Haymitch. I am going to go without telling anyone. A quick glance at Gale informs me that he is coming with me, no questions asked.

Cerise scratches her head. "Well... Captain Sculpin would know. He's in second-in-command of the military efforts." I consider the portly man that pulled Haymitch away to speak with him in private, and decide that he wouldn't be the best person to speak to if others are available.

She must see my intentions on my face and realize that I would rather not go through any friend of Haymitch's. "Arbor was saying that he signed up to leave on a mission there today, actually. He's the guy you spoke with at the gate this morning, and he should be getting off his shift soon. I'm pretty sure he would be willing to help you out, if you wanted to go. I'll take you to his quarters if you want, they're in the complex down the hall from mine. He'll probably be headed there for a nap."

"Thank you," I murmur, picking up my roll to scarf down on the way. I'm in no mood to eat anything at all, though I figure I should have at least a little something to go on, especially since I don't know the next time I will be eating. I look at the bowl of oatmeal guiltily, knowing that it would keep a starving person alive for another few days. Squandering a good meal is next to hitting a small child in my book—it simply isn't done.

"Don't worry," Cerise tells me, standing up. "Somebody will come by and eat it if you leave it there. There are plenty of people that aren't satisfied with the one serving of food, and people who just aren't hungry that will leave things for them. It's an imperfect system, but it keeps the food from going to waste."

She and Gale walk their empty bowls over to a counter designated for dirty dishes, and the three of us exit the crowded mess hall. Though the sun has fully risen, the sky is still a dull gray, forecasting a day of on-and-off showers. I love days like these—they always seem to be so full of mystery and adventure. Today is promising to live up to these expectations. Feeling slightly more energized, I notice a spring in my step that I have not been aware of in far too long. It's nice to be doing things again.


	2. Chapter 2

Arbor's quarters, as it turns out, are located in the massive sub-levels beneath the district. Given the nature of their chief industry—nuclear arms manufacturing—it's good that at least half of the city doubles as a fallout shelter. Cerise explained to us that the underground housing complex provides sleeping quarters for almost twenty thousand, though this space, spread out among eight floors, gets to be a bit crowded.

Arbor's room itself—on the fourth floor—is an atypical room in that it has reached its capacity limit. He shares it with five other roommates, according to Cerise, including one of her brothers. When she knocks, the door is answered by a lanky man with a mop of red hair.

"You know that Saxon isn't here," he bluntly informs her, denying her entry and returning to the room.

"I know that I know that. But I'm not here to see my brother, now am I?" she snaps, jamming her boot in between the door and the frame. "Is Fallon in?"

He seems to consider this for a moment, but decides to be difficult. "What's it to you?"

"Hutch Mandrel, you _cannot_ be serious right now! You are not his personal bodyguard. Let us in!" With the magic word 'us,' this Hutch Mandrel notices Gale and me for the first time. He scratches his peach fuzz as he studies us, looking puzzled.

"Who're they?" It occurs to me that he is probably either not very intelligent or very uninformed. Cerise gives an exasperated sigh.

"It doesn't _matter_ who they are, you dolt! They're here to see Arbor, and—"

"Looking for me?" The soft-spoken guard from outside the gate conveniently appears from behind us, in the act of pulling out a necklace of keys from under his black shirt. He looks at Mandrel before shutting his eyes, as if severely disappointed.

"Please tell me you're not being difficult again, Hutch," he says, voice as soft as before, though it's taken on a stern edge. "There's no reason to give people a hard time. Sometimes there are pressing matters at hand. You can't hold people up like that whenever you feel like it, and especially not in these days."

Hutch blushes, looking sheepish, before retreating to their dormitory. Arbor follows, inviting us in. For housing six people, the room does not look as cluttered as would be expected. In both of the corners farthest from the door sits both beds—well, all six beds, really. Rather than one bed, there is a large, rectangular structure that holds three mattresses rather than one, each suspended several feet above the one below it. Each of these small mattresses is perfectly made up with a scratchy-looking beige blanket, one deflated pillow at each head. Perhaps it isn't quite comfortable, but it is a practical design, especially when so many need a place to sleep.

Arbor pulls some assorted clothes from a drawer in a wardrobe and tosses them onto the middle bunk of the bed nearest to him, while Hutch Mandrel sits at a small table in the corner, polishing his boots. Not looking up, Arbor asks us, "So, you were looking for me?"

I'm caught off guard by the question, having forgotten why we came to see him in all the trouble with Hutch. Gale, on the other hand, answers without hesitating. "Cerise mentioned that you would know how we would sign up to take part in a recovery mission to District 12. Can you help us with that?"

"You came at a good time," he tells us, neatly packing his clothes into a duffel bag. "I'm just packing up to leave. Our roster isn't even close to full, but I am only second-in-command, so I don't have the power to approve or bar you from joining us. You two are more than welcome to accompany me and speak with Lieutenant Whetstone, but we have to hurry; our company is leaving very shortly."

As he says this, I think of something. "Would there be time for me to speak with my sister and mother?" I blurt out. "We haven't seen each other since I left for the Quarter Quell."

"Do you know what room they're staying in?"

I shake my head, feeling very guilty for not letting them know I'm okay before running off again. It's not my fault that I don't know which is their room, of course, but I feel like I've been detached from them for a long time. Back before the 74th Hunger Games, everything was family first, everything else after that. It feels like everything's changed since then, even though I know they will need me more than ever through the coming months.

Or maybe they won't. I don't know what this rebellion holds for me, but there is no doubt in my mind that my mother and sister will be invaluable as healers. My gut says that we won't be seeing much of each other, though this has an effect opposite of what I would have anticipated—rather than worrying me, I feel relieved.

"I'm sorry," Arbor says, not unkindly, "but we don't have the time." He starts to lift the bag he just packed, but pauses, as if stricken by a thought. "You'll need supplies if you're going to come. Standard issue clothes, boots, a survival kit. The kits I can loan you, and perhaps the boots, but as for clothes..."

He trails off, studying Gale, who is a good head taller than him. It's disappointing to think that our thrilling mission to District 12 will come to a screeching halt because of clothes, or the lack thereof. Help presents itself suddenly.

"He can have some of mine." Since the whole door incident, I had largely forgotten about Hutch Mandrel, who is now digging through one drawer. From it he removes two wrinkled black shirts; one pair of balled up pants—somewhere between beige and brown, with a seemingly infinite amount of pockets along the sides—a wad of socks, black like the shirts; a belt with slots to hang things from; one large jacket, dark green, with several pockets sewn on in case those on the pants were all miraculously filled; and finally, a bag identical to the one now on Arbor's shoulder. He stuffs the articles into the duffel and, assuring him that all the clothes are clean, hands it to Gale, who quietly thanks him.

"Good," notes Arbor. "Now—"

"You can borrow my clothes," says Cerise, looking at me. "My dormitory is on the level above this, not too far from here. It won't take more than five minutes."

He nods. "Perfect. The company is to assemble at the main gate. Shall we meet up there?"

"Of course." Cerise grabs me by the wrist and half drags me out of the room, then leads me through the hallways and up the stairs until we reach her room. She, like Arbor, wears her room key around her neck on a leather cord, and finally releases her grip on my wrist to pull the necklace over her head and unlock the door.

Her room is identical to Arbor's in every way, although it seems to have an air of organization that the other dormitory lacked. Perhaps it's the absence of people aside from the two of us, but it just feels more orderly and tidy. She hurries over to the metal wardrobe that corresponds to the one in Arbor's quarters and fishes for the supplies she promised me.

It takes Cerise very little time to pack, and within three minutes, two bags sit packed at her feet.

"What's with the second pack?" I ask, although the answer is clear.

"I decided that accompanying you might be a worthwhile experience," she says without missing a beat, though her formal tone leads me to believe that she might have other motives. I wonder how far back she and Arbor go, whether or not there is any depth to their relationship, or if they're just friends.

"Great," I say, taking the bag that she hands to me. It's lighter than I had expected, which is a good thing, I suppose, if I have to be carrying it. I hoist it over my shoulder and follow Cerise out the door.

Back above ground, the morning is now in full swing. People hurry from place to place, hauling everything from daily necessities like grain and cloth to rolls of blueprints and sheets of metal. A team of three younger boys—barely Reaping age—even pass by carrying a chopped down tree. What they could be doing with it, I can't even begin to imagine.

There isn't a single person just standing around, it seems. Everyone has a task, a duty, a place they need to be, something to deliver. It's like a colony of ants working almost voraciously, as though preparing for the lack of food source that accompanies the winter, even though it's still as hot and humid as it has been since mid-May. And they are preparing for the same purpose as an ant hill. The people of District 13 are preparing themselves for their survival. The months to come will be brutal, and it would be a mistake to not acknowledge that.

As we pass by one particularly narrow alleyway, Cerise tells me she has to make a quick stop in one of the buildings attached and she will be right out. Before I can say anything in response, she bolts, leaving me temporarily stranded in midst of all the district's activity. I lean up against the wall next to the alley, dropping my gear at my feet. As I wait, I massage my shoulder area, as the canvas straps bite in to them uncomfortably, despite their light weight.

Though Cerise hasn't been gone for more than two minutes, I entertain my eternally restless mind by observing conspicuous people in the crowd. Many of them are wearing clothing similar to those that Hutch and Cerise loaned to Gale and myself, though there are some that have variations on this and some completely different outfits entirely. Several people pass by with a brown leather strap over their right shoulder. Their arrogant gait and general aura of authority leads me to believe that these are the authority figures of the movement. I grimace at the thought of Haymitch getting a strap like that to remind everyone else that he is right and they are stupid.

Every face almost looks the same to me. Everyone just a nameless, focused being. I don't recognize a single person, and I doubt that I will ever speak with most of them. To me, each of them are the same person: the anonymous citizen, the generic soldier. It's overwhelming to be see so many that almost look familiar, but to be unable to place any names to faces.

But amongst the crowd of strangers hobbles a battered version of a familiar figure. Hair unkempt and singed, the worn-looking man is by far the most disheveled he's ever appeared to be. But despite the scruffy growth of hair on his chin and the puffiness of his eyes, the figure propped up against a crutch still resembles the Mayor Undersee I remember from District 12.

He doesn't notice me as he limps down the street clutching a folder under the arm that's not busy keeping him upright. I feel compelled to speak with him, to ask him about home—because if there is a man who would know about District 12, it would be the man who was formerly at its head—but Cerise reemerges from the alley as I straighten up to do so.

"Sorry about that," she tells me, adjusting the bag on her shoulder. There's a distracted look about her, as though she's not completely here. She silently leads me through the busy streets back to the main gate.

I don't quite know what I was expecting of the company that Gale and I will be traveling to District 12 with, but it certainly was not the motley crew that is gathered by a small, open building off to the left of the gate. Aside from Gale and Arbor, who appear to have arrived just moments before us, there are seven present in the company, looking as unusual next to each other as residents of the Capitol look compared to people of the districts.

Among the group is an extremely tall, well-built man whose dark skin and stature reminds me for a second of Thresh, the male District 11 tribute from the first time I was in the Games. He is talking to an older-looking man who appears to be half of the first man's height. To their right probably stands a girl who is mostly obscured by her mane of curly black hair. Facing away from her is a slight man with a mousy appearance, actively miming some event to a pair of twins who are struggling to contain their laughter.

The least unusual of the bunch is the serious-looking woman who appears to be roughly the same age as Johanna Mason. She wears the leather strap over her shoulder, and I reason that this is Lieutenant Whetstone.

From over by the bizarre-looking company, Arbor approaches us, Gale just behind. Arbor nods his head at Cerise's bag, eyebrows raised in mild surprise, but says nothing wordlessly leading us over to the commanding officer.

"Lieutenant Whetstone," Arbor addresses her, saluting. She just waves it off, as though the formality of it is a waste of time and nothing more. His respect is implied and does not to be displayed outright. He eases up.

"Major." A nod of the lieutenant's head in greeting subtly prompts him to go ahead and speak his piece.

"Lieutenant, there are several who have expressed interest in joining the company for this mission."

"Very well. I will consider them. Who, these three?" She shifts her attention to Gale, Cerise, and myself, studying us. It's Cerise she addresses first, which is unsurprising, as she is the one of us dressed in standard District 13 military dress. "Who are you, soldier?"

"Sergeant Cerise Latchkey, sir!"

Lieutenant Whetstone seems to consider her for a moment. She takes a quick and uneasy glance at the rest of the company, before telling Cerise, "Alright, then."

Whetstone addresses both Gale and me at the same time, one skeptical eyebrow raised. "You have no military training." It's not a question, but rather an observation. A true one, at that. The Capitol may have generally turned a blind eye to those of us who would hunt in the woods, but had we been honing our skills for an uprising? Certainly they would have stepped in somewhere.

"And neither of you are in ideal physical condition." Another true statement. I glance at Gale, with his various burns, scrapes, and bruises, his arm still resting in a sling. Not quite optimum health, but seventy-five years of Hunger Games have given numerous examples that plenty of others have dealt with worse. I'm in a much better state that him, but still a bit beat up from the Quarter Quell. It seems like ages ago.

"We will be no hindrance to the company," says Gale, voice even and measured, as though he rehearsed the line a dozen times. "And we both know the area surrounding District 12 very well."

The lieutenant nods, unconvinced. "Aren't you supposed to be pregnant?" she asks me.

Oh. I knew there was something I was forgetting. I can sense Gale shifting his weight uncomfortably to my right. My cheeks burn as I respond. "Supposed to be, but I'm not. It was a ploy. We—Peeta—we were trying to shake the Capitol citizens' support of the Quell. I'm—I'm not."

Whetstone raises her eyebrows as though she had been suspicious of the fact as it was, but otherwise shows no emotion. Another glance at the mismatched group, and Lieutenant Whetstone admits us into the company, whom she calls to attention to introduce us.

"Company, this is Everdeen, Hawthorne, and Latchkey. They will be joining us for this mission." She names each member of the group quickly, checks the watch on her wrist, and paces for a few minutes. I learn that the tall man who resembles Thresh is Strake Fulcrum, the small man's name is Cypress Bowline, the frizzy-haired woman goes by her last name, Julin, the mousy man is just called Toggle, and the twins are Rex and Rio Flintlock, though no one can ever tell them apart.

"Lieutenant Whetstone sure seems uptight to me," I remark to Gale, watching the commander pace back and forth, look around, check her watch, and repeat the process. He nods, but doesn't respond. I feel as though my false pregnancy with Peeta—even though it was just a strategy in which I had no hand in forming—might have upset him to a degree I wouldn't have thought. Between me in the Quell, the burning of District 12, and the loss of Rory, he has had a lot to deal with, and I can't blame him for being stressed out. Everything has been tough, and it's just going to get worse.

Whetstone, it seems, gives up waiting for whatever she is waiting for and pulls a radio from her pocket. She hisses angrily into the device before jamming it back into her pocket, looking frustrated.

"What was that about?" I ask Cerise.

"I'm not sure, but I have a feeling we'll find out eventually."

We do. Within two minutes, a man in his mid-thirties appears, an genuine look of apology smeared across his face. This does not, however, prevent Lieutenant Whetstone from chewing him out. As I watch her rant at the poor man, I resolve to never get on her bad side if possible. She finishes up, shakes the man's hand and pulls out her radio once more, this time speaking into it in a significantly calmer fashion. The gate grinds open in response.

The man—Cerise and Arbor reason that he is our pilot—leads us back through the field we crossed mere hours ago, but this time towards the air field rather than away from it. The crossing marks official start of our mission back to District 12, perhaps for the final time.


	3. Chapter 3

Though the trip to District 12 is a fairly short one by our hovercraft, I can't help the anxiety that gnaws on my gut. I do not want to think about—much less see—the remains of my home, though I know it is necessary for me to do so. I need to see the mass devastation brought on by the Capitol once more, as if each Hunger Games, every public whipping or execution is not enough. As eager as I had initially been to partake in this mission, I can't help but think that this will break me up further than the Capitol has already managed to.

Yet, I feel I owe it to Gale to be here, to do something for him. We both know that I haven't been holding up my end of our friendship lately. He says nothing, though I'm sure he knows it, whether consciously or deep down. I haven't been there for him, and this is inexcusable. Not when I could have—and should have—been.

I haven't spoken to anyone since he and I discussed a drop-off and pick-up location with the pilot. That doesn't even count as a conversation, either. The three of us—with the oversight and approval of Lt. Whetstone—came to the conclusion that it would be best for us to be dropped in a small clearing to the north of the district, where we would be able to quickly take cover if need be. We would then make our way south and eventually be retrieved in a large meadow that is several miles beyond District 12. Though I was skeptical about the large meadow—Gale and I have never entered it due to its openness—the locations were approved after little debate, and I retreated to a small, private bedroom, where I now sit.

Its low ceilings, combined with the walls being so close together that the mattress bows slightly upward as a result of not fitting between them, make the room seem far more like a holding cell than a living space to me, but I'm comfortable. It is here that I sit cross-legged on the bed, back against the wall behind me and stomach churning in anxiety, as I wait for the craft to reach the destination.

Our mission, as described to me, is very loosely defined: sweep the area, search for survivors, report back to the drop site by tomorrow's sunset. There's a lot of room for error, and I can't help feeling that all will be for nothing. Nothing, of course, excluding the wrath of Haymitch, though I'm positive that I will be subjected to this regardless of the mission's success. Even when we are on good terms, he is not the type to let rash decisions go without consequences.

It doesn't really matter, though. I could care less about Haymitch's reaction at the moment, as it's not the thing that needs to be focused on. However, I can't think of any way I could possibly prepare for the moment of impact, when the state of District 12 finally hits me in full force. It's not as if I don't understand the meaning of what Gale told me, and it isn't like I'm clinging to the hope that somehow there has been a mistake—I know such things are ridiculous. The thing is, none of it feels quite real. I hear the words, I comprehend them. I just can't seem to grasp their weight. And no matter how hard I try, I can't bring myself to picture the Seam up in smoke, people frantically running, the shrill screams of children. It's the likely scenario, and I know how it should go, but I just can't see it.

For the several hour-long flight, I fix my eyes on one of the hinges that holds the metal door to the wall, though I don't really see it. I'm mentally preoccupied. My mind goes through thoughts in a cycle, constantly rotating from one issue to the next, and rarely phrased in words. A series of pictures and emotions replace lines of text or internal dialogue. Imagination and memory intermingle in the front of my brain to create such a display that by the time the door swings open, I am hardly responsive.

"We're nearing the District." The mouse-like man stands in the doorway. "Thought you'd want to know. See it from the air, maybe."

His deep, smooth voice catches me off guard, as I had half-expected him to squeak based on his uncannily rodent-like appearance.

My thanks catch in my throat and are forced out as a cracked whisper in contrast. He lingers for a moment, as if waiting for me to follow him, but I don't get up. I don't have the will to. After he leaves, I resist moving for as long as I can, though I know I owe it to the people of my district to see it as the Capitol planes did. Finally, I guilt myself into getting a look at my ruined home from the air, and slowly pull myself from the cot.

As I learned on my most recent hovercraft voyage, having windows throughout the ship would make it very poor from a durability and defense standpoint. This being a military craft, the only place where physically viewing the scenery—rather than via targeting computer as the turrets do—is possible is the bridge.

Exemplified by the cell-like rooms and narrow hallways, the craft is quite small—much smaller, in fact, than the behemoth Capitol models—so it takes me no more than three minutes' walk to reach the bridge, located in the front of the rectangular ship.

The flight of traitorously steep metal stairs that leads to the bridge is guarded by the one of the Flintlock twins, who allows me up without comment. Each of the three chairs bolted to the floor of the ships bridge are occupied, but there is plenty of space to stand before the pane of glass, which nearly stretches wall to wall, floor to ceiling.

I freeze where I stand, at the top of the stairs, paralyzed by anticipation. The tall, dark man who looks so much like Thresh looks up from the panel of screens he is seated in front of to give me a grim but encouraging nod.

"Go ahead," he says to me, not unkindly. "Get a bit closer."

As the blood pumps harder and faster through my body, my muscles seem to regain their function. Slowly but surely, I inch over to the adjacent wall, squeezing my eyes shut before anything comes into view. Wouldn't it be nice, I ask myself, if I could just keep my eyes shut until this whole thing is over? But I know that I can't.

Something my father once told me comes to mind. Once when he was teaching me to shoot, my hair kept falling into my eyes, and I'd release the bow's tension to sweep it off to the side. The process kept repeating, and I hadn't fired a single shot. I remember him chuckling and telling me, "Katniss, you do know the hunter who blinds himself can never get the game, right?"

He was right, of course. But it's like getting out of bed on a dreary winter morning, when it takes all your willpower just to force yourself to do even a mundane task such as that. No matter how imperative it is that you get up, sometimes you just can't. I rarely want to wake up and face the snow—and I certainly don't want to witness this—but it's inevitable that I deal with it anyhow. Better now than never.

This similarity in mind, I employ a tactic for getting up that—while it doesn't always give me such an infusion of joy that I do a tap dance out of my room, grinning ear to ear, sunshine pouring out of every orifice—does, at least convince me to throw off the covers and stand myself up. I count. Five seconds, I tell myself. Four... three... two... one...

It's all very anti-climactic. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe that the charred skeleton of District 12 would start unfolding in front of me just as I opened my eyes. But all I can see is the forest. Somehow, it's worse this way. At least if I had gotten it over with, I wouldn't have to deal with this gut-wrenching anticipation. I can't tear myself away from the window, but I do begin to feel restless almost instantly.

Arms folded and foot tapping, I lean into the thick pane of glass, peering down at the trees. I wait for them to break, to reveal the remains of the district, but there is only green forest below. Waiting like this is agony, but the worst part is knowing time could not possibly go slower, despite the fact that a mere five minutes ago, I would've given anything to stop it from going so fast.

With a sigh, I turn sideways and rest my forehead against the glass, eyes drooping in anxious boredom. That's when I see it. Though the miserable, overcast sky does its best to conceal it, I can still manage to make out the faint plume of smoke rising into the air around the horizon line. It's no wood fire for certain, but instead has the all-too-familiar darkness of coal-produced fire. The smoldering remnants of the coal mines that characterized District 12.

The cloud of smoke grows more prominent as we approach, but it still takes several minutes for the district itself to show. The first thing that hits me is not the piles of rubble that used to be buildings, nor the ash layer which coats them. It is the scale at which the Capitol has destroyed my home. Everything is gone, nothing still stands. Had I not known that we were heading towards the south, I would not be able to say where anything at all was located. Tragic as the obliterated district is, it is apparent that my mental preparation has served its purpose. I'm numb.

We're over the wreckage for under a minute, and the rest of the flight is a blur. The craft lands in the designated clearing in no time. The rest of my company and I disembark with our gear and move to the clearing's edge as we watch the hovercraft take off into the gray sky. There is a moment of silence before Lt. Whetstone starts giving orders.

"We're going to be splitting up so we can cover more ground. You two—" she points at Gale and me "—are going to be responsible for navigating because you know the area so well." I glance at Gale, whose countenance is as blank and unreadable as it always used to be in the district, outside of the woods. It's unusual to see his face so apathetic, so lifeless on a backdrop of trees.

"However," Whetstone continues, "the responsibility of making decisions and the power of final say still rests in either my hands or Major Arbor. Hawthorne—" Gale hardly blinks as she barks out his name "—you will be guiding Julin, Bowline, Toggle, and Rex Flintlock, in the charge of Arbor. Fulcrum, Latchkey, Rio, and myself will be with Everdeen. Rendezvous at the pick-up point two hours before sunset tomorrow."

As the group assignments are called off by the lieutenant, the company rearranges itself so each member is nearer to either Gale or myself, depending on where they should be. There is a moment where the group seems temporarily stunned, unsure of whether or not we should be doing anything. During this time, Gale murmurs that he will lead his half around the district to the east and I should take the west half. I nod, not really paying attention, oddly transfixed by the small exchange being made between Lt. Whetstone and Arbor.

She pulls a small package from a nearby bag, which I assume is hers, and hands it to him. What happens next catches me by surprise. Though I can't see her face, I can tell that whatever Lt. Whetstone is saying to Arbor is neither stern nor commanding, but, if anything, worried. She places her hands on his shoulders, just as Gale had done while visiting me before I left for my first Hunger Games. I never would have expected the stoic, serious lieutenant to care about anybody, or show it, and especially not on a mission. This reminds me of how horrible I am—and have always been—at gauging people's lives and motives.

The pair separate, and Whetstone appears by my side, showing no indication that anything unusual just happened, or that anyone had witnessed it. I stare at my feet for a moment, awkward and uncomfortable in the silence, before I tell her that our group will be covering the west half of the district while Gale and his portion of the company will go east. To this she nods, motioning for Cerise, one of the twins, and the dark-skinned man to join us.

"Lead on, Private," the lieutenant commands in my ear, with an emphasis on the last word that I cannot decipher the meaning of. Puzzled, I shoulder my bag and start into the trees, the rest of my company noisily following.

I can stand the snapping of twigs coming from behind me for all of about five minutes. As at-home as I feel in these familiar woods, the four behind me combined sound like a stampede of deer, which completely ruins them. I pause for a second, mouth already open to beg them to silence their feet when the familiarity of the scene strikes me, rendering me paralyzed.

Peeta. Back in our first Hunger Games, he couldn't for the life of him keep quiet in the woods. I remember making him take his shoes off, though that hardly helped. How impossible it was to stay frustrated with him. How his incompetence at gathering ultimately allowed us both to go home from those Games. And how now he's gone, maybe forever.

"Something wrong?" The rest of the company has halted. Some stare at me with a quizzical expression, while the others try to find the cause of my sudden stop. They won't, though. Not here. Not within a few hundred miles of here, even, if that. And, sad as it is, I doubt they—or anyone, really—will.

"No," I mutter, before catching myself. "Wait, actually, yes. Sort of." My brief mental venture to the Capitol, to the small metal cells, the chairs with restraints and tables with cutting instruments, has completely derailed my train of thought. Clearing my throat, I start again. "Could you maybe walk a bit more quietly?"

Of course, there's no rational need for this at the moment. It's hardly as if the instant we get too loud—about six minutes ago—a squadron of Peacekeepers will drop from the trees and hogtie the lot of us. But there is something about these woods that is sacred to me, something I know is to Gale, was to my father, to Bonnie and Twill and to the red-headed Avox girl. Something special to anyone who has ever sought refuge from the world among its trees. They should not be disturbed. Not needlessly. But I can hardly put this reason into words without coming off as selfish or rude.

"Do as she says." Fortunately, Lt. Whetstone can. "When you don't know who is around to find you or why they want to, it tends to be best to keep as low a profile as possible. Do your best to mute your boots."

The noticeable change in volume is blissful. While my platoon hasn't come close to mastering stealth, they are doing a much better job of treading lightly. The relative silence allows me to concentrate on looking for signs of people, though I have little luck with this. The heat of late summer has left the earth loose and dry, making it difficult to distinguish even a squirrel's track from a bird's.

Poor as the ground may be for tracking, it looks as if it will become impossible at any moment. The sky is as ominous as I've ever seen it, having gone from a dreary overcast to one dark mass overhead threatening to swallow the small lighter gray patch that rests near the horizon—and the rest of the world with it. I know that the rain can't wait much longer.

But as there is nothing in the scope of our abilities to let us control the weather, we keep pressing on through the woods. It is the brilliant flash of lightning that breaks the silence and prompts Cerise to make a suggestion.

"Perhaps," she says urgently, "it would be good if we got away from all these trees?" I think of how her brother was killed by electricity. I don't know if it's a contributing factor to the urgency in her voice. Either way, I agree with her. Gale and I usually do our best to get away from the the trees in thunderstorms.

Whetstone, on the other hand, looks skeptical. With a frown, she muses, "Wouldn't any remaining people keep to the woods?"

Though the question is more likely rhetorical than not, I add my input. "Maybe, but it would be safer for us to get to the open. The district isn't far from here."

And suddenly, I'm uneasy about leaving the emotional protection of the woods. I know the state of District 12, but it's a lot more unreal from an aerial view. I was able to stand that, but to be among the ruins? I'm not so sure.

Lt. Whetstone, however, is. "To the district, then."


	4. Chapter 4

My gut twists itself in knots as we get closer and closer to District 12. The feeling of unease I had initially felt since I suggested that we leave the woods and head towards the district has increased tenfold. The rain has miraculously managed to hold off, though the strikes of lightning grow louder and closer together, urging everyone on.

Our trek through this soot-covered, smoke-filled portion of the forest ends quickly enough. Heart and footsteps increasing in tempo, I practically run the last minute of woods, putting more distance between me and my company than probably is safe. But, just like when I viewed the remnants of the district from the air, I would much rather get it over with than spend more time with my stomach clenched in anticipation.

As I push through two close-together trees to reveal District 12 in all its glory, it is apparent that this is not like last time at all. I am rooted to the ground where I stand, finally struck by the magnitude of the ruins. The fact that my home is no more. Virtually everyone, everything I knew, gone; only ashes remain in their stead.

It feels like I should be crying, I should loose a bestial yell, do something to commemorate the atrocity that occurred here, but I am paralyzed, breath stolen by the carnage. It is this that reminds me that the Capitol must fall. Hunger Games, executions, public tortures, and every other monstrosity aside, _this_ is not alright. Anything else they have done in the past pales in comparison to the destruction that smolders before me.

Time must be passing, but I am trapped in a vortex of bottled up, angry emotion, completely separate from the rest of the world save for what lies in front of me. As far as Panem can see, I have been turned to stone, the initial look of stunned sorrow still etched upon my face. On the inside, however, a fire has been extinguished and replaced by an inferno. Any previous drive toward active rebellion against the Capitol had been mildly strong at best, any conviction that their immediate removal has been necessary still laced with doubt.

But no longer. Now, it is as if my blood has been drained and replaced with a hot fervor, a potent impetus to tear them down, person by person, brick by brick. My heart's primary function is no longer to sustain life, or even to care for others—it is first and foremost a storehouse for this whole new level of passion. While I may have been the spark that started this rebellion—the Mockingjay, the Girl on Fire—this is the catalyst which has converted all my energy into not only defying the Captiol, but defeating them. And if one spark provided so much momentum, what will a whole blaze do?

I am dragged out of my emotional frenzy by a hand on my shoulder, belonging to my commanding officer. She takes a second to pause out of respect, the rest of our company following suit, filing in to her left. It is calming to see the four others bowing their heads, a salute to the strangers and the district they never knew.

"Well," Whetstone finally sighs after a particularly loud clap of thunder, "as disrespectful as it is, we've got to go in at some point."

"No." The filter between my brain and my mouth isn't vigilant enough to stop it from escaping. I get no reaction from the lieutenant, who is stunned. I guess I must be the first to object to one of her orders.

"_What?_" Though Whetstone's brain has finally processed the information, her expression of utter surprise remains plastered on her face.

"That's not what I mean," I blurt out, eager to prevent any actual trouble. "You're right that we have to enter, of course. It's just that... well, it isn't disrespectful, I don't think. Not to the people of District 12. This—" I turn to face away from the district, sweeping my arms to signify the catastrophe behind me "—isn't theirs anymore. It's not a tribute to them, no testament to their lives at all. If anything, this is a monument to the Capitol, to what they are willing to do, their injustice. It's—if intruding on this grave is any kind of disrespect, it's to them."

I exhale sharply, denoting and punctuating the end of my rant. As relieving as it was to let loose some of my caged emotion, I have the sneaking suspicion that such rants and outbursts will be coming more frequently, which may end up getting me into deeper trouble in the future.

"I suppose you're right." My lieutenant avoids pursuing the topic further, perhaps trying to avoid another explosion on my behalf. There is an awkward silence, broken first by a roll of thunder, then by our Flintlock twin.

"So we're okay to get away from the trees now?" he asks, showing a weary eye to the sky. Lt. Whetstone and I exchange a glance, agreeing that the misunderstanding is resolved. With her curt nod, we move in.

It takes us a few minutes to look for a place in the fence where it is possible for us to cross. I'd forgotten how Romulus Thread had tightened up security as a means of keeping me out of the woods. The electricity, of course, doesn't run through it at this moment, though the metal ties at the bottom designed to prevent people—and by people, I mean me—from going under.

We finally locate a spot where the district's fence has been forced to the ground under the weight of several cinder blocks. Gingerly, I step over what had once been the top portion, delicately avoiding the jagged barbs, the rest of the group following my lead. The man who reminds me of Thresh gets the end of his pants snagged, causing him to fall face-forward. Luckily, he gets off with minor scrapes on his hands from breaking his fall. It is fortunate that he managed to avoid the barbwire.

The inside of the district is no less of a hazard. Metal, melted and twisted, sticks up out of rubble piles, lies on the ground, and hangs off of partially collapsed buildings at eye level. Smoke from still-smoldering buildings bites at eyes, noses, and throats, reducing vision and making everyone cough occasionally. Then, there are the avalanches of rock, where shifting piles of debris collapse outward, threatening to swallow you whole.

It's weird to see all the streets I used to know covered in their own ruins, damaged beyond repair and almost beyond recognition. The point we entered used to be the merchant class neighborhood, with its line of formerly two-story buildings, shops on the bottom, living space above. All the glass from the windows was smashed out when the floor above collapsed, and now litters the streets, crunching with the gravel beneath our feet.

I don't linger by the Mellarks' bakery. There is nothing for me there but a memory's ghost to play my heartstrings like a harp. Rude as it may seem, whether or not the Mellarks made it to District 13 is not one of my top priorities right now, especially since I already know that my favorite one of them did not.

The rain had held off for so long that when it finally does let loose, we are caught completely by surprise. It comes down in sheets, each individual drop needle-thin and stinging. Our Flintlock twin holds his bag over his head for the minimal protection it offers. The rest of us follow his lead. Lightning strikes, the thunder much closer now than it has been.

"We should find shelter!" shouts the tall, dark-skinned man over the wind and rain. Our lieutenant lets go of her bag with one hand so she can give him a thumbs-up. It would be a great thing to get out of the rain, but there are few buildings remaining whose roofs haven't collapsed in on themselves yet.

I take the lead, steering us towards the Justice Building, whose stone structure is less likely to have succumbed to the damage. We're still a ways from the square, though, and many of the shorter routes have been cut off by piles of various former building materials: blocks of stone, half charred beams, many collective shingles are all strewn in the streets. We are thoroughly soaked in minutes, growing more and more desperate for any partial shelter.

"How about here?" Flintlock points out the ground floor of a two-story shop building that used to sell shoes. While its actual roof—along with two of the upper-level walls—is missing, the lower level is still relatively intact. The floor of the top level, which now acts as the ground floor's ceiling, sags inward under the weight of the rain that has no means of draining itself, but otherwise is in decent shape.

I am a foot from the door way, about to stick my head in to check out the inside when it happens. The sagging roof gives a great groan, and then—Crack!—completely caves in. Several thousand pounds of wood come crashing through the space that my head was about to occupy. Startled, I jump back, inadvertently throwing my pack in the process.

"Maybe not," says Cerise, scowling at the black clouds overhead. Heart pounding, I retrieve my bag from the puddle of mud it landed in. I wipe the dirt off as best I can before I rest it on my head once more, still interested in the very minimal shelter it offers.

Even ten minutes later, the rain continues on relentlessly. The five of us, arms tired, have given up trying to stay dry and have returned to carrying our packs over our shoulders, rather than attempting to use them as a rain shield for our heads. We reach the south side of the district, where everything seems a little bit less destroyed. Still collapsed, but less scarred by fire. The fence still stands, though the barbed wire has been stripped off the top in long sections. What could possibly have prompted the Capitol to spare this part of District 12?

Our journey along this side of the fence is not hindered by the piles of debris that blocked our path elsewhere, and we make it to what used to be the District Square in little time. I can't deny the significance of the place in my recent history. Where all of this began, in a way, at that Reaping, when I chose to compete in Prim's stead. Where Romulus Thread took over the district as Head Peacekeeper, or made it known, at least, with his first action: whipping Gale.

Unluckily, the Justice Building did collapse, despite the fact that it was built of stone. I give up on the building at one glance, and continue to look for a building left standing. However, the dark-skinned man, whose name escapes me, proves that everything deserves a more thorough searching.

"Hey!" he shouts. "I found a little bit of shelter!"

The weather has made me too dejected to run, but I am thrilled that we can take a break from the infernal rain. As I approach, it seems that what he has found is a small cave created by the fallen building. Unfortunately, it's too small, with only room enough for three.

"Alright," says our lieutenant, "three of us can stay here, the other two will explore the district."

I already know which two will be exploring. I set my bag down and take out the jacket, which hasn't been completely soaked quite yet. I stretch, sigh, then ask, "Are you ready, Lieutenant?"

Whetstone and I head back towards the south fence to begin our exploration. We follow it further east, though I'm not quite sure what Whetstone means to look for. There's nothing. There will be nothing. Just sadness and ruin and destruction.

The worst part is the flag pole outside of the peacekeepers' headquarters. Limp and wet from the rain but otherwise unharmed is the Capitol flag, white with the red emblem of the Capitol still showing. It makes me sick to see. I consider taking it down, but the the rope ends at a cleat halfway up the pole, probably for that very reason. So the Capitol is always above the people of District 12, always untouchable. And that hurts worse.

As we approach the train station, it occurs to me why the Capitol might have spared this edge of the district. The railroad tracks must stop somewhere before District 13, but if the Capitol could ship soldiers as near as they could and then move them by foot, it would be vastly easier for them to reach it. Doing that would be cheaper and more efficient for sending large armies than by hovercraft. And it would still give them access to the underground cache of coal for energy in the meantime, provided it was still there. Of course, if the supply had blown up, the train station would doubtlessly be obliterated as well.

"Wait," I tell Whetstone. "I want to look for something. There should be a stock of coal around here, underground."

She nods, and we search for the metal doors in the ground. I find them where I remember them to be, the lock already broken. I'd never been inside before, but I knew it contained numerous kegs of powdered coal, which is easier to store and transport, and also what is needed to produce energy. There are barrels of powder stacked to the ceiling from about five feet in front of me to the back of the room, which is about twenty five feet by twenty, and maybe eight feet tall.

"Think we should do something about this, Private?" whispers Whetstone from my left. She's right, we probably should.

"Yes, but what could we do?" I respond. "I mean, we can't exactly—" My foot catches on a step that I don't see, on account of the darkness inside. On the way down, my arm drags across something that I can't see, slicing through my jacket and leaving a deep gash. I hiss in pain.

"You okay, Private?" asks the lieutenant. I stand myself up, arm stinging, and examine the wound in the light that filters in from the door. It's pretty deep. "Go back to the supplies and have Flintlock or Fulcrum patch you up. I'll wait here and try to come up with a way to get rid of this."

I don't really want to go, but I obey with a nod and leave the storehouse. Outside, the rain has died down some, but the wind has picked up. A flash of lightning splits the sky, followed closely by the thunder paired with it.

This time when I pass by the peacekeepers' headquarters, the flag is being blown around intensely. I glare, still mad at it. That's when I notice that it's not the Capitol's flag at all, but rather a crude one made from a sheet. In the center, rather than the blood red seal of the Capitol is a mockingjay. My mockingjay, painted on in what is apparently _actual_ blood. It is smeared from the rain, but still unmistakable. I'm awestruck.

And then it hits me. I see exactly what is set up to happen, the whole plan. Confirming my suspicion is the barbwire wrapped several times around the base of the pole, reminding me of Beetee's electrical trap during the Quell. My eyes follow it across the ground—why didn't I see it before?!—back towards the train station, towards the store of coal.

I break into a sprint back to the station to warn Lt. Whetstone, following the barbwire on the ground the whole way. The wind and the rain sting the new wound on my arm, but I ignore it. Why is it that whenever you need to be somewhere as fast as you can, the trip is twice as long? I flinch at each crash of thunder, worried that it might have hit its target, though none do. When I approach the station, I begin shouting my head off.

"Whetstone! Lieutenant! Lt. Whetstone!" I yell, still running closer, until finally her head emerges from the hole. "Get out of—"

And then it happens. When the Careers' food supply exploded in my first Hunger Games, it was jarring. But I was prepared for it, at least. One brilliant burst of white light from behind me, an earsplitting cannon shot of thunder—

With a great blast, the hole in the ground where Lt. Whetstone's head is erupts in a column of fire. I am picked up off my feet and thrown backwards like a rag doll, and the whole world goes black.

* * *

**A/N: I don't usually add notes, but I'd like to take the time to ask you all to please leave me a review if you like it (or even if you loathe it with every fiber of your being) It really means a lot and I do my best to respond to all of them. Even if I can't manage that, I do read them all and they all do make me happy. Thanks for reading!**


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